Heart On My Sleeve (In Sunscreen)
by anotherfangirlshipper
Summary: "Shit." Stiles swears, holding out his left arm. Water drips steadily from his hair onto his arm, where the word Derek stands out pale on his tanned forearm. (Or that one time Stiles thought it would be a good idea to write Derek's name on his arm in sunscreen and then forget about it for a couple hours while the rest of his body got nice and tan.) Sterek. M for language


**A/N: ****AU where Allison survived the events of 3B, and this takes place in the summer following those events. **

* * *

"Shit, shit, _shit._"

Stiles swears, holding out his left arm. Water drips steadily from his hair onto his arm, where the word _Derek_ stands out pale on his tanned forearm. There's even a fucking heart after it. Scratch that, a _fucking less than three._ What the hell had Stiles been thinking?

* * *

It had been a pleasant, warm Saturday in Beacon Hills. Well, pleasant compared to the past week.

Beacon Hills was having a heat wave at the moment, and for the past 8 days, the lowest temperature the area had gotten was 85°F. It was supposed to get into the high 90's and 100's over the course of the next two weeks, so for it to be around 75°F at about 4:30 in the afternoon was a complete and total blessing.

For once Stiles didn't have to worry about researching some ridiculous supernatural being on the way to try and kill everyone in the town.

The pack was taking care of the kelpie. (They discovered it in Beacon Hill's only lake after it killed a couple kids, and planned to help it find its way back to its own pack…herd, whatever.) Isaac had volunteered to take over the role of chief researcher, muttering something about the Loch Ness Monster's cousins before grabbing the laptop out of Stiles' hands and sending him away, but not before insisting that the horse-like creature wasn't dangerous, because it can only travel in water.

Stiles, for once, didn't have to get up early to go help Scott with more of his "werewolf training." (He insisted on doing it every Saturday morning to "stay awesome at werewolfing.") Scott's words, not his own. And yes, Scott had turned "werewolf" into a verb. So Stiles had slept in for the first Saturday in what seemed like forever, and relaxed around the house for a few hours.

Realizing that the luxury of free time would most likely not come around again for a long time, Stiles had decided to do something else he hadn't done in a while. He wanted to sunbathe. He hadn't relaxed like that in a long time, but he missed it.

Stiles used to sunbathe with his mom. They would sit in their backyard in two big poolside chairs that his mom had bought for only $5 a piece at a garage sale, and relax in the sun. Sometimes his mom would read to him, other times they listened to music, and sometimes they just sat there in silence, their eyes closed, feeling the sun on their faces.

But what Stiles had loved the most about sunbathing with his mom were the times that they would just sit there and talk. He doesn't even remember what they used to talk about, not really, but he doesn't need to know exactly. Stiles can still remember, though, the smile on his mom's face when he made a joke, and their laughter that followed, clear and loud against the background of birds chirping in the tree in their neighbor's yard. He can still remember the taste of the drinks his dad used to bring them.

The Sheriff was pretty much a disaster in the kitchen, but apparently beverages didn't count as something "in the kitchen," because he was an incredible drink maker. Stiles' dad would bring them coconut blueberry smoothies one day, and fresh rhubarb lemonade the next. He made peach sparkling water, and strawberry fruit punch. Stiles' mom used to joke that they would never drink the same thing twice, and Stiles agreed.

They had turned it into a game, and every time the Sheriff would bring out a new drink, Stiles' mom would thank him, and then turn to Stiles, eyes twinkling. As soon as the Sheriff left, after lecturing them about wearing sunscreen and how they were both going to get skin cancer, Stiles would pull out a little notebook from the secret pocket he and his mom had made under his chair, and his mom would hand him a pen. He added the newest creation to the numbered list in his notebook, coming up with silly names by the suggestion of his mom when they had no clue what exactly they were drinking.

When his mom went to the hospital, and it became clear that she wasn't going to be coming out, Stiles had drawn a thick black line after the last drink they had (number 134, mango raspberry smoothie) and vowed not to bring the notebook out again. Ever.

His dad stopped making drinks, and Stiles stopped sunbathing. It wasn't the same with his dad, and he just couldn't do it alone, at least not yet.

* * *

But time had passed, and the thought of sunbathing was no longer painful, but comforting.

So had Stiles grabbed his iPod, along with a glass of water and a book, just in case, and headed to his backyard.

It was just how he remembered it, but the weeds more overgrown, and the birds louder. Stiles had walked over to the pool chairs, and ran his fingers across his moms, then his own, smiling at the good memories.

He had sat down in his chair, placed his water on the ground next to him, put his earbuds in, and started his music, lying back to relax.

About seven songs later, a shadow had crossed in front of him, and he thought he smelled water. Stiles had peeled an eye open, looking up.

Nothing was there, and he had shrugged it off, closing his eyes again.

When he'd opened them five songs later, the Sheriff had stood in front of him, tapping his foot, an economy sized bottle of sunscreen in his hands.

"Forget something?" he had asked Stiles, frowning down at him.

"Huh?" Stiles had groaned.

"Oh, yea, thanks Dad," he'd continued groggily, sitting up and opening the jumbo bottle of sunscreen his dad shoved at him.

Stiles had slathered sunscreen across his calves and thighs, going up under his shorts an inch or two for when he shifted around in his seat. Having done his face (and ears, as the Sheriff reminded him, before walking away,) he had turned to his arms.

Stiles was wearing a cutoff (for maximum sun-tanning-ness) and he'd smeared sunscreen all over his right arm and shoulder. Moving onto his left side, he'd covered his upper arm and shoulder before pausing at his forearm.

Now, the sunscreen Stiles' family had used since, well, forever, went onto skin white, but after thirty seconds of it sitting there it turned clear. It was his dad's favorite kind, and his too, if you forced him to admit it. Stiles' mom used to make little designs on Stiles' arms and legs when he was younger, and then, once the sunscreen turned clear, he would rub it all in.

And, Stiles supposes, looking back on it as he stands in the shower, that was what led to this whole mess.

So Stiles had gotten the ridiculous idea into his head (it was _brilliant_ at the time, mind you,) that he should write Derek's name on his arm (and then rub it off after, of course).

(In his defense, he was pretty much half asleep at the time, so it really did seem like a great idea.)

Derek had been in Stiles' thoughts pretty much since he first laid eyes on him. Sure, the thoughts started out more in the _holy crap this guy is gonna kill me _category, but they slowly progressed to the _wow, he just saved my life _zone, and eventually made it to _sweet lord this guy is smoking _territory about three or fourth months ago.

Okay, three months and twenty six days ago.

Not that Stiles is counting the days since he realized Derek is, in fact, totally hot.

Or maybe he is.

But really, can you blame him?

So anyway, Stiles decided to write Derek's name on his left forearm in sunscreen. He even put a little "3" after it. Stiles remembers thinking at the time, "how cute...just like Derek!1!" (And yes, he actually thought a "1" in among the little exclamation points, exactly like he imagined a lovesick preteen would do.)

_Man, how much sun exposure do you need to become completely insane? _Stiles thinks as watches water wash across his arm as it pours from the showerhead. _Apparently not very much at all. _Stiles rubs at his arm, but the word, the name, don't budge. _Of course it won't, _thinks Stiles.

_How had he let this happen?_

Stiles had counted on fawning over the little "Derek 3" written on his arm for about twenty seconds before rubbing it off. He counted on giggling about it for a little then smearing Derek's name across his arm. He counted on rubbing the sunscreen in, and going back to relaxing, forgetting about what he did as he fell back asleep.

Stiles hadn't counted on falling back asleep so quickly.

Stiles hadn't counted on waking up when it was dark outside.

And Stiles had most definitely not counted on, upon washing the sweat and stickiness off of his body in the shower, to glance at his left forearm, where the word "Derek," followed by a "3," was located, pale as the skin on his chest, a stark contrast to the newly golden brown arms, shoulders, and legs he had.

* * *

After swearing profusely, Stiles steps out of the shower, drying off quickly and grabbing a pair of shorts and a tank top to sleep in. He pulls on a hoodie before heading down to dinner.

Sure, he might die in the heat (it was above 80°F now, even though the sun had set) but he can't risk his dad seeing it. Stiles can just imagine the raised eyebrow he would get from his dad.

(It was a lot like the look he was getting now as the Sheriff stares at Stiles' hoodie, eyebrows furrowed.)

"Kinda cold now, after being out in the sun all day, you know me Dad, never following the norm," Stiles says by way of explanation.

"Sure, son, whatever you say," says the Sheriff, who had learned not to be surprised by anything now.

Stiles smiles, glad his dad isn't questioning him further.

At least he can just go back outside tomorrow and tan it away, with no long term consequences, simple.

As if anything in Stiles' life is that simple.

* * *

Stiles wakes up to the ringing of his phone. He looks over to his clock, which reads 11:15 A.M., before glancing at his phone.

(Now, Stiles had started taking sleeping pills after his "sleepwalking across town" incident. They were really effective, and by really effective Stiles means that they knock him out for a solid eight hours, no exceptions.)

He blinks a couple times, before reaching over for his phone and _shit. _Stiles sees his arm, and the past day comes rushing back to him. Derek's name is even more pronounced on his arm after a night of sleeping.

_I'm an idiot_ Stiles thinks, before thumping his head face first into his pillow.

Stiles' phone starts to ring again, and he groans, pulling another pillow on top of his head. Eventually it stops, but Stiles just lays there, too lazy to get up and too embarrassed to look at his arm again.

Fifteen minutes or so have probably passed when Stiles hears someone clearing their throat.

He shoots up, sitting upright in his bed, and looks to where the sound came from.

Derek is leaning against his wall next to his open window.

_Derek is leaning against his wall next to his open window. _

_Derek. _

_Fuck. _

Stiles leans onto his left side, burying his arm… _the arm_… under his blankets. He tries to look casual, but it's hard to do when he can't even use his left arm to prop his body up without Derek seeing it.

"So," says Stiles.

"So," replies Derek, "you're alive."

"Umm, yep, last time I checked," Stiles replied. "So what's with the Edward Cullen impression?"

Derek rolls his eyes, and walks over to Stiles bedside table. He picks up Stiles' phone, and holds it up to him.

_16 missed calls_ it reads. _37 new text messages. 5 new voicemails. _Derek puts it back down.

"Oh," says Stiles, "must've been in a pretty deep sleep then, the pills will do that, oops."

"Stiles."

Derek grits his teeth before continuing.

"The kelpie can travel out of water."

"Oh." says Stiles.

"It can turn into a human." says Derek.

"Oh." says Stiles.

"Isaac isn't the best researcher," says Derek.

"Oh." says Stiles.

"You haven't been answering your phone," says Derek.

"Oh." says Stiles.

"It's killed two people." says Derek.

"Oh." says Stiles.

"It was heading away from this direction, blood smeared across its body and dripping from its mouth when I got to it." Derek finishes, and Stiles realizes that the greenish blue substance on Derek's hands and shirt must be the kelpie's blood.

"Oh," Stiles says, grimacing. "Sorry…?"

It comes out like a question, and a look of annoyance flashes across Derek's face.

"So what happened?" asks Stiles, before Derek can say anything.

"I was on my way to check to make sure it hadn't killed you when I ran into it." Derek says with a blank expression on his face. "Like I said, it was dripping with blood when I saw it, and I could smell you on it. I lunged at it, but only got a couple claws in it before it escaped. I told the rest of the pack which direction it was going in and came here as fast as I could. It reeked of you, Stiles."

Stiles wonders why, but then it hits him.

"I was outside in my backyard yesterday listening to music with my eyes closed and I _thought _a shadow crossed over me," he recalls. "I could have sworn I smelled fresh water too."

Derek frowns, and Stiles gasps.

"Oh my god I almost died, didn't I?" he asks. "But why did it leave me alone?"

Derek furrows his eyebrows further.

"I don't know," he says as he pulls out his phone from his pocket.

He holds the phone up to his ear.

"Scott?" he says, "yea, we're all good here, Stiles is fine. No, he was just sleeping really deeply earlier."

Stiles can hear Scott's laughter through the phone, and it makes him feel like a little less of an asshole.

"Okay," continues Derek, "yea…no, it's fine…did you guys get rid of the corpse?... okay, good…yup." Derek hangs up before Stiles can ask to talk to Scott for a second.

"Pack meeting in thirty," Derek says, already halfway out the window.

"There _is_ a door!" Stiles shouts at his back, before falling back onto his pillows.

* * *

Stiles looks at his reflection in the mirror. He's wearing shorts and a long flannel shirt, and he looks completely ridiculous. It's 85°F out and steadily getting warmer, and he is wearing a long sleeve flannel shirt to cover _Derek's name on his freaking arm._

His face is already turning pink from the heat.

Stiles turns up the wrists of his shirt a little, leaving about three inches between where his shirt ends and Derek's name begins. _That should be safe, _he thinks. He looks in the mirror one more time, hoping that his face magically got cooler.

It's turned a couple shades more pink. Apparently that was possible.

Stiles'phone vibrates, and he sighs, grabbing it off his desk along with the keys to his jeep and walking out the door. He glances down at the phone as he walks outside, seeing a new text.

From: Sourwolf Hale

_Where are you?_

[sent 12:32 PM]

Stiles rolls his eyes before getting into his jeep and sending a quick message back.

To: Sourwolf Hale

_Coming now_

[sent 12:33 PM]

Stiles pulls out of the driveway, and heads in the direction of Derek's loft, pulling down his left sleeve subconsciously as he drives. He wonders why on Earth the kelpie left him alone rather than ripping him to shreds.

Not that he's complaining.

* * *

Stiles' face is dripping with sweat by the time he gets to the loft, despite the fact that he kept all the windows rolled down while driving.

He wipes his forehead on his sleeve, and looks in his rearview mirror. His face isn't quite as bright red as before, but he sure doesn't look like his usual pale self. He rearranges his hair, which has gotten slightly puffy from the humidity, and double then triple checks his left sleeve to make sure his 'Derek tan' (like farmer's tan, get it?) is completely covered.

Stiles walks up to Derek's loft, and stops outside the door, raising his hand to knock. Before he can lower his fist an inch, he hears Scott inside.

"Stiles is here!" he shouts, "let him in!"

Stiles shakes his head fondly, _Scott, _he thinks.

The door opens to reveal Isaac's cheery face, a bit red in the cheeks. He's wearing red shorts and a white tank, and looks so cool and comfortable that Stiles can't stop the look of longing that he's sure flashes across his face. Stiles recovers quickly, before smiling and saying hey, then stepping into the loft, completely missing Isaac's expression of confusion.

Scott, in a blue, orange, and white striped tank top and black shorts, is sprawled across the ground next to Kira, who is wearing a flowered crop top and jean shorts, with her hair in a messy bun on the top of her head. Both of them hold icy glasses of water, and Stiles thinks he feels some drool on the corner of his mouth. He wipes it just to be safe.

Isaac walks over to the couch, where he leans against the front of it. Allison, in a short lacy white dress with a daisy flower crown in her side braided hair, is sprawled across the top of it, next to Lydia, who is wearing a light purple skirt with butterflies on it and a pale yellow halter top, her hair pulled into a high ponytail.

Stiles nods at the girls and Scott, walks over to a chair, and drops down in it, tired and overheated.

A minute later, Derek walks into the room, looking every bit the supermodel in black basketball shorts and a hazel-green muscle tee that perfectly matches his eyes and definitely doesn't fit the way a loose muscle tee should, seeing as it clings to his every muscle. He's carrying a glass of water and Stiles has to literally bite his lip from whimpering out loud. (Stiles tells himself it's the water that's making him act like that, even though it's totally not.)

Derek sits down in a dark red wooden chair in front of everyone, and Stiles notes the fact that their seating arrangement put them in a semi-circle around Derek, with Stiles right next to Derek.

Stiles shifts in his seat, trying to get comfortable, but the back keeps rubbing against his plaid shirt, and he wishes with all his might that he could just rip it off right there and then to feel relief. But he can't, because _he is an idiot. _

Stiles gives up moving around (it's not like it's helping anyway,) and crosses his arms, looking up to see Scott looking at him with a question in his eyes. Stiles shakes his head slightly, silently telling Scott not to open his mouth. Scott crinkles his eyebrows before shrugging and turning towards Derek, who appears to have been watching the exchange between Scott and Stiles, unbeknownst to them.

Derek clears his throat, and everyone stops talking and looks at him.

"So the kelpie…" he begins.

"Is dead," finishes Isaac.

"Are you sure?" asks Derek, eyebrows raised at Isaac.

Isaac blushes.

"We're sure," says Lydia. "Kira and I did the research while Scott, Isaac, and Allison tracked down the kelpie."

"So the folklore goes–" Kira starts, but Stiles cuts her off before she can finish her sentence.

"Let me guess," he smirks. "A kelpie can be rendered docile and harmless by using a Placement Charm to put a bridle over the creature's head?"

Stiles' grin slowly creeps off his face as he looks around the room at blank stares.

"Really?" He asks. "No one? _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_? J.K. Rowling? No one?"

Derek shakes his head at Stiles in what appears to be disbelief. If Stiles' face wasn't already bright red, it definitely would have turned an abnormal shade of it from Derek's expression.

"…Okay then, continue." says Stiles sheepishly.

"So as I was saying, the power behind a kelpie is concentrated within its bridle." says Kira. "When it is taken from the kelpie, the bridle holds magical powers. Basically, it gets its strength from the bridle, and without it, when it is in human form, the kelpie should be less powerful."

"But lucky for us," butts in Isaac sarcastically, "our kelpie was a special little guy, right Scott?"

Stiles looks over at Scott, hoping he'll elaborate.

_Umm,_ thought Stiles, _is it getting hotter in here or…?_

"So basically, this kelpie found a way to harness the power of his bridle while in human form." explains Scott.

"That's why it was so hard to track him." Allison continues. "In kelpie form Scott and Isaac could smell him, but as soon as he turned into a human, the scent was lost. We had been looking for some water horse type thing running around and killing people, when in reality the kelpie would have appeared to its victims as a human."

"So, did we kill this thing or no?" asks Stiles, "Cause I'd feel a lot safer knowing that the kelpie that can turn into a human that none of you guys can track is out of the picture. Especially seeing as it seems to have taken a liking to my _scent. _I mean, my trusty old baseball bat is useful, don't get me wrong, but I don't know how many more supernatural creatures it can take on without having some permanent damage done to it."

Stiles shifts in his seat again, leaning forward so his shirt isn't sticking to his back, and consequently, the chair.

"Don't worry Stiles," says Scott. "I told Derek we took care of it, and we did."

"So we had tracked the kelpie to the forest," began Isaac. "And we knew how to control it."

"Lydia and I had come to help, and we all surrounded it," continues Kira, "and Allison got in close enough to pull off its bridle."

"I assumed that would be the end of it," Allison chimes in. "But of course not."

"The kelpie started going crazy," exclaims Lydia. "It was rearing up and snorting and its eyes looked absolutely insane."

"I honestly don't think that there was anything we could have done to help it," Scott says regretfully.

"So Allison shot it in the head," finishes Kira, smirking.

"The end." says Isaac proudly.

Stiles snorts.

"Well that was a nice story guys," he says, pulling at his shirt sleeve. "Glad to know Beacon Hills is still in the hands of such capable heroes. So do we know why it left me alone?" he asks.

"We think it's because of us," says Allison.

"You?" asks Stiles, confused.

"Well, really only Scott, Isaac, and Derek," says Lydia.

"Their scents, really," Kira explains. "We think the kelpie smelled the pack on you and decided it couldn't take on three angry werewolves for just a human."

"'just a human,' thanks Kira," says Stiles.

"Oh, shut up," says Lydia. "You know what she means."

Stiles shrugs, before shifting again in his seat.

"Are you okay Stiles?" Isaac asks abruptly. "It's a little warm to be wearing long sleeves, especially flannel, don't you think?"

Before Stiles can say a word, Lydia jumps back into the conversation.

"Oh, cut the crap Isaac, stop beating around the bush," she says. "What's with the long sleeves, huh?" she asks Stiles.

"I bet he's doing it to protect himself from the sun," says Allison. "Right, Stiles? My dad taught me to do that too, sometimes wearing long sleeves in hot weather actually turns out to be better for you."

Stiles opens his mouth, but Isaac jumps in.

"Not even," he laughs, "I'll bet Stiles just has really sensitive skin, so he can't have it out in the sun a lot, right buddy?"

Scott rolls his eyes. "Come on guys, does it really matter why Stiles chooses to wear what he wears?" he complains. "Just let him be."

"I know what it is!" declares Kira, completely ignoring Scott. "I bet he has a really bad farmer's tan!"

"Oh my gosh that's totally it," says Allison excitedly. "Remember last time I got that horrible shorts tan and I kept my legs covered for three weeks?"

Kira smiles. "That's nothing," she says. "Last month Scott left his sunglasses on and he got a really bad sunglasses tan…he looked like a reverse raccoon for a month!"

"So _that's_ why you wore sunglasses for so long!" laughs Lydia.

Scott face palms, glaring at Kira. "I thought you said you wouldn't tell anyone," he whines, playing up the puppy eyes. Kira giggles.

And Stiles tries to sink into the floor, but it doesn't seem to be working out so well.

"It's okay," Kira says. "Remember those awful ring tans I had?" She turns to the group to explain. "So I was in a wearing-a-million-rings-on-all-my-fingers phase, and it was really sunny, and when I took off my rings at the end of the day my fingers were completely striped!"

Isaac lets out a chuckle, and Lydia smirks. "I got a really bad sandals tan just last week," she says. "Why else would I be wearing the same pair of sandals for a two week straight?" She gestures down to her sandals, and sure enough, they're the same ones she's been wearing the past few pack meetings.

"See Stiles," laughs Allison. "We've all had embarrassing tans, so just stop overheating yourself and switch shirts. Go borrow one of Derek's or something!"

_Derek. Oh crap, he's still here, _thinks Stiles.

_Of course he's "still here," what am I thinking, this is his place. Oh gosh. No way in hell can he see this. _

Stiles squeezes his left forearm through the shirt, and shakes his head.

"I'm fine guys, don't worry about me," he laughs nervously.

"Anyway," he continues, "look at the time; I really should be heading back home. Nice chat, I'm glad we could resolve the whole murderous-kelpie-too-intimidated-to-take-me-down situation. Talk to you guys later."

Stiles all but shoots out of his chair, and he walks quickly to the loft door, and past it.

Isaac, Scott, Kira, Lydia and Allison all look at the door that Stiles just walked through, bewildered by his behavior.

"What just" starts Allison.

"…happened." finishes Scott.

"Hell if I know," says Isaac, still staring at the door.

"That was weird," states Kira, and Scott nods in agreement.

None of them notice Derek get up, but when he clears his throat they all look over at him.

"So the kelpie is done with for good, correct?" he asks.

"Completely gone," replies Lydia, and Derek nods swiftly.

"Good." he says. "We'll meet next Saturday unless something comes up before then."

Scott speaks up. "Is it okay if we hang out here for a while, Derek? It's so hot out today."

Derek throws a "whatever" look over his shoulder as he walks out the door. "Don't break anything."

Isaac, Allison, Scott, Kira and Lydia settle back into their respective seats, deciding to hang out till the sun goes down.

* * *

Derek closes the loft door behind him, and turns his nose up.

The air smells like Stiles' jeep, flannel shirts, vanilla, and leather. It's the scent that Derek has come to associate with Stiles. (How Stiles smells like vanilla will always be a question in the back of Derek's mind, seeing as, as far as he knows, Stiles doesn't use any cologne with hints of vanilla.)

Overwhelmingly, what Derek can sense in the air can only be described as irritated feeling. He closes his eyes and sniffs, and he feels warm, uncomfortably warm, and he wonders why Stiles is feeling that way.

Well, he knows why Stiles feels that way; it's because he won't take his damn long sleeved flannel shirt off.

What Derek doesn't know is _why_ Stiles refuses to take the shirt off.

Of course Derek had noticed Stiles' long sleeves when he first walked into the room and saw him sitting there, but he decided that he would just let it be.

But as soon as Isaac had mentioned it, Derek noticed Stiles looking increasingly more and more edgy. He could see beads of sweat on the teen's forehead, and watched as Stiles fidgeted in his seat over and over.

Derek grew more curious as Stiles deflected all the questions and comments directed towards him, and was surprised to see the teen walk out of the room so quickly.

Derek looks off to his right, where he sees Stiles heading to his jeep, keys in his hand.

He's over in a split second, and is standing a foot behind Stiles before the keys have even made it in the door.

* * *

Stiles moves his keys towards the door of his jeep, thinking to himself.

_Whew, that was close. Imagine if Derek had seen…_

His thoughts trail off as he feels a prickling on the back of his neck. He whips his head around, and sees Derek standing behind him, definitely too close for comfort.

_Oh shit. _

"Oh, hey Derek," Stiles says, trying to come across as casual. "See you next week."

He tries to turn back around, but the keys are two inches away from the door before they are grabbed from his hand. He turns around, sighing, just in time to see Derek pocketing them.

"Aw, come on man," says Stiles, defeated. He tries to walk away, but Derek boxes him in, putting one arm on either side of Stiles' body, whose back is already trapped against his jeep.

"What's going on Stiles?" Derek asks flatly.

"Nothinggggg." Stiles draws out the word.

"Come on Stiles, what is it?" questions Derek, stepping even closer to Stiles. They are separated by less than a foot, and Stiles can see every one of Derek's eyelashes, and wow.

_Holy crap how did he get even closer I didn't think that was possible, _thinks Stiles. _Oh my god I hope he can't smell his name on my arm. _

_Wait. Why would he be able to smell his name on my arm? _

Stiles eyes jump to his forearm before he can stop himself.

_Oh FUCK. I am an IDIOT, _he thinks, as he sees Derek's gaze flicker to his left arm.

"Stiles" Derek trails off. "Tell me what it is or I swear…"

"It's okay," Stiles says nervously. "Nothing to worry your little werewolf butt off about."

Derek lets out a low growl, and Stiles realizes that saying that to _Derek _definitely was not his brightest idea ever.

Derek grabs Stiles' wrist with his right hand, and uses his left to pull Stiles' sleeve up to his elbow.

Stiles closes his eyes, hoping it magically disappeared, but when he opens one to check, there it is.

_Derek _

It stands out so white on his arm, and Stiles winces when he sees it.

"Hehehe. How did that get there," Stiles chuckles nervously. He doesn't meet Derek's eyes.

Stiles finally looks up, expecting the glare to end all glares, but that isn't what he sees.

It's not exactly a smile on Derek's face, but the corners of his mouth are definitely turned more up than down.

Now Stiles is the one who is confused.

"What–"

Stiles' sentence is cut off as Derek crushes his lips to Stiles', pinning him against his jeep.

Stiles' eyes widen in shock, before he realizes what is going on and kisses Derek back as hard as he can. Stiles' heart beats so fast he swears it's going to jump out of his chest.

_Death by Derek, _he thinks. _Not a bad way to go. _Then something in Stiles' mind clicks into place.

_Holy crap oh my god what the hell holy shit I'm kissing Derek what the fuck oh my god yes, _is what runs through Stiles mind before he decides to stop thinking.

Stiles gathers two handfuls of Derek's cutoff, and tries to pull Derek closer.

Derek growls again, low in his throat, and Stiles thinks it's just about the sexiest thing he's ever heard in his life.

Stiles runs his hands through Derek's hair, and down his body until they come to a stop on his chest.

His perfectly muscled chest.

"I died and went to heaven, didn't I?" Stiles asks as Derek kisses his neck, his slightly chapped lips and stubble dragging across Stiles' skin. "The kelpie killed me. Wow, I'm dead. I can't believe it. I had so much more I wanted to do with my life. I was gonna go to college, and have an awesome job, and– "

"Shut up," says Derek, before kissing him again, lips slotting perfectly to Stiles'.

Stiles moans, and Derek slips his tongue into Stiles' mouth.

Stiles thinks that this is long overdue, as they kiss each other feverishly.

Five seconds later they break apart at the sound of a shout.

"OH MY _GOD._" shrieks Scott. "MY _EYES!_"

* * *

**A/N: Thanks for reading! I got the idea for this fic from a _horrible _sandals tan I got a few weeks ago. My feet have stripes. Anyway, for some reason my stories seem to write themselves about Stiles and Derek, so there you go. Hope you liked it! :)**


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